As they walked, he studied the young man’s face. There was a strange, far-away look in his eyes that baffled him.
He had intended to open the matter directly, but somehow he felt it impossible to do so now. And, fearing lest Ørlygur should notice his scrutiny, he looked away, and said casually:
“The sun has come to warm the graves for them, it seems.”
Ørlygur glanced up at the sun, and was silent for a moment; then he answered absently:
“Yes. The sun must have been his best friend in life.”
The old man turned towards him; the tone and manner in which he had spoken were unusual.
“Those in misfortune,” he said softly, “have but few friends as a rule.”
Ørlygur’s eyes took on the same fixed, determined look they had shown in the chamber of death a little before.
“He was not one of those in misfortune,” he answered steadily, with a dignity beyond his years; “he was more fortunate than all.”
Ormarr looked at him with his wise old eyes, as if to read his innermost thoughts. But there was a tremor at his heart. “This is Faith,” he thought to himself. “Faith in something that seems sure beyond all doubt. It is the first time it has come to him in life. If the boy were a Catholic, now, he would turn monk; he is convinced at this moment that self-abnegation is the one true way. God alone knows the workings of his mind, but it is a dangerous crisis to pass through.”